


(I can't walk on the path of the right

by Eicinic



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: /what's there to fix?/, Existentialism, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, I think one of the hardest depressions to overcome, Introspection, M/M, because then, might be the one that starts when nothing is wrong, rawness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 01:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13870050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eicinic/pseuds/Eicinic
Summary: He needs to go to work. His sanity is soldiering a war against the hunger of the wolves he can’t see but feel their exhales on his skin when the coldness of his empty apartment greets him every night. He can’t find his voice to hold on the fight and greet back. He can acknowledge he’s given up.But then, not really.He’s still here. Through this. Every day. There has to be defiance in his back if it’s still keeping him straight.





	(I can't walk on the path of the right

> _because I'm wrong.)_

 

Silence is the only thing that greets him when he closes the door at his back. He stands there, feeling the cold biting his bones through his flesh. The wolves in the silence of his apartment are nesting in his living room, seizing him. 

It takes a shiver and a few seconds to finally let go of the door, shoulders slumped, suitcase weighing heavily in his clamped fist. 

He doesn’t feel the emptiness,  _ hears it.  _ It’s the low growl of the furniture, the wind that shakes the bathroom window, the flicker of that light in the kitchen, its uninterrupted buzzing, the small, brief echo of his steps towards his bedroom, where he turns on the heating system and stays in the doorway, his coat still on, 

his scarf still on,

his shoes still on.

The ice inside him doesn’t speak of winter. 

There’s an intermittent red light coming from the voicemail. It’s what makes him react, drop the suitcase on the bed, take off the jacket and press the button.  _ You have no new messages.  _ The voice is not so loud, but in the deafening silence of his apartment it can be heard from the kitchen. _Annoying_ , he thinks, as he takes off the scarf, then the tie, then the shirt, strips to his underwear and reaches out for his pajamas, in the same place he always leaves them in the morning: neatly folded on the nightstand. 

He doesn’t realize how he’s trembling from the cold until he needs to open a canister with the contents of the dinner from three nights ago. He wonders if it’s still edible. 

There’s nothing in this apartment but visible corners. A single chair. A single bedroom. A light that buzzes until it snaps and Levi lifts his eyes up, how long has it been like that? 

How long has it been agonizing?

He feels a shiver crawling over his neck when he sits on the single chair, back turned to his living room. There’s a window still open from the cleaning this morning. He should get up and close it. 

He doesn’t. 

Even if it’s raining there’s nothing to be soaked near the window. 

Mouthful after mouthful he revisits his chores for tomorrow, and they’re the same as yesterday: attend the early meeting with the rest of the team, work in his office until 6pm, get back home, have dinner, go sleep. 

No, wait, tomorrow is Saturday. So he stays at work until 3 pm, only. He doesn’t know what else afterwards. 

Maybe he will just stay there. 

It’s not so bad there, he can clean it up since it needs some dusting, albeit he brushed everything off on Wednesday, maybe, or was it Thursday, both days, he guesses, probably. The coffee machine was broken yesterday so he surveyed the guy there trying to fix it up, he needs three cups of coffee to make it through the day and his mug is also gathering dust. He likes to take his shoes off because the floor of his office is carpeted and he cleans it thoroughly at least three times a week, makes Erwin take off his footwear if he’s going to lecture him about some shit, forces Hange to slide the folders under the door or wait until he’s on his lunch break; they never care about whatever shit they step on in the streets. 

Levi feels another shiver crawling down his spine that forces him to get up and close the window. It’s pitch dark outside, cars roaming in the distance, a plane crossing the sky: only light pollution and darkness. The floor is wet where the glass was open, rain still drawing railroads against his windows. 

Is this everything?

Maybe it’s true that his house represents him: a buzzing light that agonizes day after day without anyone noticing, until it dies. 

Will he die, too? Here in this apartment where he’s been the last years, he doesn’t remember how many anymore, staring at the fingers he picks, and picks, and bites and chews on, not noticing it’s the only way his body knows to cope with anxiety, anxiety he doesn’t have a definition for but feels its weight when he gets to his apartment, and there are hundreds of wolves waiting, devouring his guts while he’s still breathing. 

The hunger of his monsters welcome him home every night. 

He ignores it, for another day of the same routine: getting up, going to work, getting back, going to sleep. 

Maybe that’s everything there is to it. Just this. Just going through his life, contemplating it go by.

He stares at these hands and thinks he should be doing bigger, better: there’s nothing legitimate in the way he’s surviving: head low, shoulders slumped. That’s the double-edge of this moralism: he should be doing  _ something else  _ but he can’t, because he’s already reached everything that he was supposed to, in the beginning. A job. A house. A car. 

So, maybe, he’s the one that is wrong.

  
  


> _ (How much of me do I love?) _

 

The rain is still barking against the windows when the alarm going off screeches it’s morning already. He doesn’t recall going to sleep but his dry, warm sheets talk of a night without nightmares. He feels the cold hit him like a raw dive into the ocean, lips trembling when he puts on the dressing worn, annoyed at how the heating system isn’t working properly. The way the freezing atmosphere numbs his limbs feels distantly familiar, there’s a sense of misplacing clawing its way into his chest when he opens the bathroom door and his breath can actually be  _ seen.  _

This is how it would feel if he had to camp outside, but then, 

_ no, _

there’s a part of him that is already outside. 

He’s a host in this body. 

He blinks into awareness he doesn't know how long after, but his phone is buzzing somewhere between his sheets and he’s not cold anymore. Did he fix his hair? Is he dressed? 

“Yes?”, he mumbles, as he unlocks the phone. 

“Where are you?” 

“On my way.”

“Can you pick Hange up? They tried to avoid traffic but part of the subway is closed for reforms and now they’re stuck between stations”, Erwin’s voice is even colder than the place he’s leaving behind as he grabs the keys and puts on the coat. 

“Don’t they have a phone to call me themselves?” He mutters, irritation making its way to his mouth, tightening it. 

“New cell, remember? They dropped it yesterday somewhere they can’t remember.”

“Whatever. Just where are they?”

The next moment he’s fully aware of is getting off the car with a very talkative Hange by his side, fingers around a cup of coffee that has his name written in a way he doesn’t really understand and cold sweat under the soaked coat. His hair is sticking to his forehead, there’s the beginning of a migraine behind his eyelids. He forces it away as the elevator takes them to their floor. 

He’s tired. 

They’re really, really late for their morning meeting, which translates into them barging in the reunion room to attempt to follow the thread of a debate that didn’t include them in the first place. Levi supposes it’s fine, he only wants to pull off his clothes, change into warmer ones, dry his hair and curl up in whatever corner, alone. He sighs very, very quietly, small, very small inside his coat, his piercing glare belying his body language when he lifts it to look at Erwin, who just addressed him for no circumstance in particular. 

“Whatever you think is good will be”, he forces out, breaking contact to look aside and sink further in the dumped fabric of his coat. His back is against the wall, to hold him. His arms are crossed over his chest,  _ to keep the monster inside. _

 

> _ (Sometimes what is feeding off me also feels lonely) _

 

He hates the emptiness inside his head. The silent crowd that leaves no space for outsiders. But he is an outsider.  _ This body I’m living doesn’t welcome me.  _

Hange is looking at him with knowing eyes, but it takes him a few moments to go from the bag they’re offering him to their face to understand what’s happening, and where did time go this morning. 

_ You can go out and kiss a stranger so you can feel something _ , 

But that’s not what they said. That’s what the radio is saying as he’s tapping with his fingers on the wheel, waiting for traffic to ease off. He sees the ambulance lights flaring through the rain, hears a siren, but doesn’t have enough space to drive to the side to make room for the ambulance. Yet, he pulls over in that space between that red car and the crash barrier, the buzzing in his ears drowning off the barking of the rain, the heartbeat of the music, the persistent cry of the alarm, 

_ we all might just be looking for creative ways of killing ourselves, _

and then his phone is going off and he’s jumping on the bed, pulse like crazy and cold sweat from anxiety making him feel gross, misplaced. What was the dream about? Where are the blankets? Why is it so cold? 

As he’s trying to peel off of his skin how  _ wrong  _ he feels in this body his mind brings up a scene he doesn’t recall living, but it’s there, suddenly, freezing him, eyes anchored on where the skin of his fingers is raw. He saw a man on a bike, last night, pedaling down the street under the downpour at the same speed of the cars. He saw how he opened his arms, closed his eyes.

It was insightful, in a way. He’ll never know the stories of all these people he sees once in his life, multiple days, the rest of the time. He wonders how it felt. To let go. 

Levi doesn’t know. Doesn’t have anything he needs to let go of, and maybe that’s the problem. 

He should make things change. Force them to change. But he’s so  _ exhausted _ . Waking up took all of his energy, already. Washing his hands, fixing his hair, dressing up, getting ready to leave for work. He really doesn’t want to. But he  _ should.  _

He says  _ tomorrow _ . 

Like he always does. 

His car has other plans, though, because he can’t start it. There’s something keeping his life in a gravitational orbit: he’s never late for work. The alarms of his phone measure the breaths of his existence, from getting up to coming back. There’s a schedule he has to accomplish everyday, otherwise he wouldn’t make it out of his own bed. 

A nest of snakes twist in his stomach when the car remains immutable through his fifth attempt at scratching out a roar from the engine. He fumbles with the phone to check on the hour because his hands are shaking, he can call in sick. But then, _no_ , if he takes a day there’s no reason for him to go to work tomorrow. All of his efforts for months would be worthless, because there wouldn’t be a point to them. There’s nothing else in his life for him to accomplish: his job is reliable, he owns an apartment, he can afford expensive luxuries as much as he can afford to save up for traveling, courses, anything his mind lingers on enough for him to remember there was a purpose behind the thought. 

He has to go to work. 

He  _ needs  _ to go to work. His sanity is soldiering a war against the hunger of the wolves he can’t see but feel their exhales on his skin when the coldness of his empty apartment greets him every night. He can’t find his voice to hold on the fight and  _ greet back.  _ He can acknowledge he’s given up. 

But then, not really. 

Because he’s still here. Through this. Every day. There has to be defiance in his back if it’s still keeping him straight. 

There’s a direct line in the subway from his apartment to the office, fortunately avoiding the reforms that held Hange up the other day. Or the other week. He can’t recall. He will still make it in time and it’ll be a regular day. One he knows. 

It doesn’t keep his lungs from constricting when he tries to fill them with oxygen, though. Doesn’t make it easier when he has to navigate through the crowd in the subway, trying to avoid any body from entering in his personal space, from  _ touching him.  _ Hands on his clothes, shoulders bumping into him, a breathing on his neck, on his hair, the stickiness of the floor here where someone’s dropped something maybe yesterday, maybe two days ago. The claustrophobia of the poorly ventilated air, the burning stink of bleach over the urine and the denseness in the pipes: it stinks of humid sewer and it clings onto him, crawls along his skin. The tunnel is freezing cold when the train arrives, wagons busy with the buzzing of early routines: someone’s sneezing, someone’s coughing, someone’s listening music so loud he can hear it even though they’re on opposite sides of the space, someone’s chatting over the phone. His coat is suddenly not long enough to hide him. 

Ironically, the light inside the train is so bright it defeats the purpose of the windows: the only thing he can see through them is the reflection of the inside of the wagon. Could be worse, he guesses, since he can see how that kid two rows back on the right is sneaking glances at him. Their eyes meet by accident in the reflection and Levi glances violently away, overwhelmed with the brutal sense of bared intimacy and exposure that comes with the unwanted connection.  _ Don’t come this way,  _ he wills, and the kid doesn’t. 

The anxiety doesn’t leave. It’s there under his fingernails when he can’t wash his hands once he’s out in the cold; this pain in his stomach he can’t suppress with a coffee, the small voice with whom he returns someone’s greeting in the elevator. The day hasn’t started and he’s only hoping for it to be over. 

His mind is crowded with noise. With the growling of his beasts gnawing holes through his guts so he has to knot the pieces into a rope, and trust it’ll be long enough for a safe landing in this free fall through emptiness he wakes up to every morning. 

He doesn’t ask when it’ll end because he’s  _ too used _ to live like this. That monster staring back is only himself, his identity: part of his skin, flesh and bones. Breathes in tandem in his office, feels the icy winter through the windows.

His palms are cold and sweaty when Levi hides his face in them and breathes through his mouth, commanding,  _ begging  _ his mind to focus. But there’s  _ the noise.  _ The angry buzzing of all the thoughts he can’t grasp spiraling in his head, weighing on his shoulders. He’s looking forward to going home, but barely really notices when his shift ends and Erwin knocks on his door to see him off. 

“It’s past the hour to go home, Levi”, the man chastises, although there’s no real bite to his tone. Levi blinks hard, tries to focus on the clock. His vision is blurry from the hours he’s spent staring at his laptop, at these papers piling up in the corner of his desk. His eyes are agreeing with Erwin more than what he does, even if he starts wrapping up to go home. 

_ Home  _ isn’t what welcomes him when he pads past the door, but he’s used to that too. Used to the rain drenching the city, the roaming of the cars, the dark nights. The empty fridge. With exhaustion soaking every inch of his body more than what the rain accomplishes he turns on his heels to make his way to the convenience store, only two blocks street down from his apartment. 

It’s the only placement nearby that sells groceries, otherwise he wouldn’t ever step in, given the sticky floor, the poorly sanitized place, overall, and how the cashier isn’t bothering in concealing how he picks at his nose. 

His disgruntled expression prevents that other guy skimming through the dvds in the corner from greeting him, example the cashier doesn’t follow, deepening the frow in Levi’s crease:

“Hey, you heard about Hope Lines?”

_ No,  _ leave him alone. 

“I don’t care”, he rasps out, glare darkening. The cashier is touching his groceries with those dirty, gross fingers after picking at his nose, and has actually the cheek to annoy him with propaganda. 

“That’s what we all say” he nodded to himself and proceeded to slip a flyer in his plastic bag, “sorry, part of the job.” Levi, in all honesty, didn’t give a fuck. He stormed out of the shitty place and debated on throwing away the stupid paper. It didn't matter . He bothered with getting some microwave lasagna for dinner, but upon getting back the perspective of a shower and drop dead on his bed was more appealing.

He scrubbed at his arms until they were raw and itchy, until the anxiety was washed off from his skin. His hair was still wet when he buried himself in his blankets, shivering in the cold of the apartment. 

He convinces himself this is how it’s supposed to be, because he doesn’t know better. Everyone around him seems to be doing the same: owning a place to live, a car, a family. If they have found a reason to keep on then it can’t be that difficult. He’s okay. There’s nothing to fix because there isn’t anything broken in the first place. 

So then,  _ what’s wrong? _

Tiredness competes with impotence to own his body. The silent contemplation of his life scurrying through his fingers as his days are torn between going to work and getting back. His bed is the best welcome he receives. The late night shower the only pleasant moment in the day. It’s not until the evening of some other day in the week that he realizes the plastic bag from the grocery store is still on the counter, the food unfrozen by now. It takes him only two seconds to consider if he can die from food poisoning, shrugging on how he doesn’t really give a crap. If he ends up in the hospital probably the beds are warmer there. And at least he won’t have to get his own meal ready. 

There’s this yellow recycled paper inside, all black lettering and poor design, he doesn’t remember where it comes from.  _ Hopeline, for suicide prevention and emotional crisis. 24 hours a day, seven days a week.  _

The raging roar of a bike in the streets snaps him out of the contemplative trance, staring at the paper like there’s something in it he really can’t understand. But that’s it, that’s all the information, followed by a number. Is there a real use for this sort of business, is it a real business in the first place? Do suicidal people bother in calling before killing themselves? He doesn’t know. It unsettles him, somehow. 

Maybe that’s why he finds himself dialing the number, for this twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach, for the rain barking against his windows, for the silence in his apartment. Maybe there’s no reason at all, maybe it’s only curiosity. 

“Hello, this is a hopeline, how may I help you?” His gaze is locked on the floor, roaming through the veining of the stone. The operator sounds young, maybe. Suddenly this feels stupid, anxiety rushing to consume him. 

“I don’t know”, he manages, in a flat, quiet voice. There’s a brief silence. 

“Is that how you have been feeling for long?” 

“Maybe.”

“Have you ever tried to take your life?”

These questions feel invasive in a way he can’t put to words, even if the voice at the other side of the line is calm, and inviting. He curls up on the couch  _ (when was the last time he sat there?) _ , knees pulled to his chest and phone heavy in his hand. Does he want to keep talking? To hang up? Is there an use for this? The silence stretches between them. He can still hear the operator breathing, there’s a violent intimacy to it raising goosebumps along his skin,  _ maybe it’s the cold; _ they are two unrelated people sharing a call with nothing to say to each other. Or that’s what he thinks until the man adds: 

“It’s okay. When you’re ready, I am here for you. I won’t hang up.” 

Reality is, Levi doesn’t have much to tell. I have a good job, I have savings, I have a nice place, I have a car, I have friends, everything is going well. I don’t know why I called, this seems rather stupid, shouldn’t have wasted your time. What he voices, instead: 

“Why.”

Why would a stranger bother in listening to him breathe as long as the call lasts. Well, he’s probably getting paid for it, but still. If he feels violentated by the situation the operator won’t feel much better.

“I want to help you. I would really like to talk to you, if that’s okay?” 

The uneasiness is overpowered by brief confusion, because he’s never been asked permission. Levi decides he likes it the next second, his shoulders relaxing briefly. 

The operator takes his silence as confirmation, his voice even more open now: 

“Today is really cold, are you warm?”

Which prompts a soft snort from him because  _ really,  _ is that part of the script?

“It’s not”, the operator confirms, like it’s a secret he’s not ashamed of at all. 

“So, not following the guidelines of your job?” 

“They don’t really suit me.”

“Bratty.” 

“Hey!”, the protest is half-hearted, it starts to untie the knots of tension in his gut. Maybe this is not so bad. Maybe that’s the only reason he can recognize to himself as to why he hasn’t hung up yet. 

“It’s cold”, the man concedes, after another pause. The cold is the only reason he hasn’t untangled, but  _ that’s a lie.  _

Resting one cheek on his knees his gaze wanders through the windows, from light to light in the buildings across the street. The rain still collides against the glass, filling the silence. 

“Is there anything warm you can drink? Tea? Coffee?” 

He doesn’t know. Didn’t Hange gift him some weird ass teas when he moved in? But that was years ago and the stuff is probably rotten somewhere in the cupboards. He can’t be bothered to get up and look for it, though. 

“Maybe something to eat? If your stomach is digesting food you’re less cold.” A long pause. There’s a very annoying dog barking nearby. His neighbor just walked in their own apartment. The elevator whirls at some point. “I’m here”, the operator adds, quieter that time. He has a nice voice, Levi thinks vaguely, there’s a raspy touch to it.  

He doesn’t know how long he stays still, eyes absent on the darkness outside and phone warm against his ear. But probably long enough for the operator to speak up and mumble how sorry he is that the time of the call is already over, but  _ you can call anytime, I basically live here and it was nice talking to you.  _ Which is a huge lie, Levi realizes too late, when he’s able to process the words moments after the line goes dead. He’s forgotten he wanted to ask why anyone would want a shitty job like that  _ (he can barely deal with Hange’s bullshit through the day and they’re his closest friend, imagine having to listen to people ramble on how miserable their lives are)  _ so he taps on the number and dials again, brow slightly furrowed. 

“Hello, this is a hopeline, how may I help you?”

“Why are you working on this?”

“I didn’t think you would take up on the offer so soon”, the operator huffs a laugh. A breathy laugh, one that makes Levi sink deeper in the couch. “But I’m really glad you did. Also, I’m the one supposed to make the questions here.” 

He shrugs, feeling stupid because there’s no one here to see him. 

“I have nothing to say.”

“Everyone has things to say. You called for a reason, didn’t you?” 

“Yeah, to know why you have a crappy job.” 

“Well, this way… I am humanity’s hope.” 

Levi raised a skeptic eyebrow. There wasn’t an underlying presumptuous tone to it, the guy really meant it. Maybe it even was funny, considering the seriousness of the statement. 

“I didn’t know I was talking to a stripper.” The laugh was a bit louder this time. Usually his sarcasm wasn’t funny, so it was as confusing as shocking. 

“Your expectations are low if that sounds like an actual stripper name to you.”

“Meaning you already have one in mind? Care to share?

“That’s n- I- you seriously want to spend our 20 minutes talking about this?”

“Not like you seem to be good at following the guidelines.”

“Hey! That’s only half true! I don’t really believe the script is suited for everyone! You didn’t sound like the talkative type and”, his determination deflated halfway, Levi could almost /feel/ him squirm on the other side of the line, “you sound very intimidating.”

“Oh?”

“Like a man people refer to as  _ sir _ and such”, that actually pulls slightly at one of the corners of his lips. “Are you by chance in the army?”

“I do business.”

“As in one of those rich salary man controlling the economy of our country? I have a friend expert in conspiracy theories”, he rushed to justify, as to not offend him. 

“Office slave”, Levi contradicted, somewhat amused by the conversation and / _that_ /, is new. He doesn’t recall the last time he was entertained by socializing, doesn’t even recall the last time he was able to retain someone’s words addressing him. The noise in his head drowns his reality. 

“Oh.”

“Too little to fulfill your picture of a hardcore hooligan who came back from the army to become a heartless devil in the business industry?” 

The operator is really laughing now, it draws a small smile on the other half of his mouth. 

“I said you sounded intimidating, but never that I didn’t like it.”

Well, that’s new too: Levi is at a loss for words. Suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable, he hides in himself a bit more and can’t really bite back the defensive tone: 

“Do you really get paid for shittalking?” 

“Is that supposed to offend me?”

“Does it offend you?”

“Not really, this conversation is very nice”, then, he adds, like an afterthought he can’t stop in time: “you’re nice.”

“Is  _ that _ part of the script?” 

“Maybe”, the man snickers quietly, as if out of embarrassment. It could be that this is out of his control, that too many unexpected things happened too quickly, but Levi feels the sudden wave of anxiety coming back to greet him. He needs to end this call before it spirals further from his grasp. It was already a lot and largely energy-consuming, even if he can admit to himself it wasn’t half as bad as he expected.

“Anyway, that was everything I wanted to know.”

There’s a heavy silence in the line he can’t interpret, tightening the anxiety in his chest. 

“Okay, thank you for calling. I hope you do it again, I am here for you when you’re ready.”

_ That _ definitely is part of the script. It only sounds too personal and invasive, or maybe he’s really not used to have someone being so considerate. Not that his friends aren’t, it’s just a different approach. Or it could be that the operator is a stranger and Levi is more scared of socializing than what he’s willing to recognize. Either way the silence around him is overwhelming when there is no one to talk to.

He tells himself he is used to that type of solitude, even if he really doesn’t know how to be alone with himself: there is a difference. A difference is what he sees in his body after a shower, from how it was months ago. The corners of his bones draw a topographic map under his skin. He hates that. Hates that his reflection talks of something eating him from the inside he can’t hide. Yet he’s too tired to cook as to start changing it. Funny enough, however, he does find the box of tea Hange gifted him easier than expected; rummages through the breeds not really knowing what to try until he picks Earl Grey and decides it can’t be too bad.

Next day there’s no more rain, but snow instead. He still has to board the train to get to work and it’s as hard as the first time, only that now he doesn’t try to fight it anymore. Anxiety built a shelter out of his ribcage; it might just be okay, even if it is a bitchy companion. What can he do, anyway. It’s not like taking drugs sounds like a better option even if an appealing one. First because he doesn’t want to make an appointment with any psychiatrist, he can already imagine how it'd go:  _ I’m in my thirties everything is going fine but I can’t cope with my very fine life, I’m just this pathetic.  _

“Did you step on dogshit on your way here?” He raises a questioning brow at Hange, who readjusted their glasses to take a better look at him. “You are scrunching your nose, that’s your face for something very displeasing and that can only be something dirty.”

“Might as well had been”. He mumbled, eyeing the flats as the elevator took them up. Not wanting Hange to poke in his business further he hastened to change the subject: “I had some of your tea yesterday.”

“Was it  _ that _ bad?”

“What? No. It was better than it looked. But it’s annoying you just. Put all the tea bags in there I don’t know what you touched that day. Could be anything.” Levi stared down at Hange’s hands, judgmental. They only laughed. 

“I washed my hands twice before touching them, I promise.”

“Can’t trust your understanding of  _ washing _ .”

“I’m a doctor, you know.”

“You’re a biologist. That’s not a good assurance.”

“Jeez, technically I’m a doctor, I do have a doctoral’s degree. Couldn’t have really gotten that far if I didn’t know how to wash my hands properly.”

Levi looked at them with a blank face, enough to let Hange know he wasn’t buying it. 

“You won’t die from drinking tea with those bags I can guarantee that much.”

“Disgusting”, Levi mumbled as farewell as he entered his office. It was a warmer place than his actual one, it even had a small pot in one corner of the desk by Erwin’s insistence and to his own discontent. He wasn’t especially keen on having to take care of a plant just to watch it slowly die, not that his complaints were heard anyway. 

The cold in his skin melted away with the first cup of coffee of the morning. The one in his bones didn’t. He was resigned today, more worn out than usual to fight this sickness corroding his identity. Hange brought him a salad from the café down the street at lunch. The taste of vinegar itched in his gums, scrunched his nose, remained in his mouth for the rest of the day even after two more coffees. The board meeting took longer than usual, he went through a solid three hours of metaphoric thrown knives, everyone eager to put the blame on whoever but themselves. The last contract with an Asian company didn’t work out, things just happened that way. 

“Twenty three”, Hange mumbles by his side, that glint of confidentiality to their eyes Levi starts to suspect they might have planned on pranking them all. Not that he’d complain, they can all burn for all he cares. 

“Twenty three what.”

“Times you’ve sighed.”

Oh, that’s disappointing. He wasn’t really expecting for scorpions to fall from the ceiling on everyone’s heads. Maybe he was.

At the end Erwin managed to put an end to the afternoon’s madness and dismissed them all nearly evening. Levi rested the side of his head against one of the walls of the elevator, eyes closed. It hummed slowly and consistently, lulling the twenty fourth sigh to make its way past his lips and drag along the exhaustion of the day. It drenched his bones, as the snow outside soaked his clothes. His fine life was fine, it just felt miserable. 

He feels miserable. 

If this is what life has to offer, he doesn’t want it. 

_ He doesn’t want it.  _

The realization dawns on him like iced water sliding down his back. There’s nothing afterward: no fighting, no resistance. Only understanding emptiness. 

Then, the intrusive thought takes over his mind with an urgency translated into a nervous itch along his body, similar to when his own skin bothers him so much he needs to shower, scrub it raw, peel it off, he feels gross, misplaced, caged, he has to do it now, right now, right this second, finish it, finish it  _ now:  _ he doesn’t want this life. He doesn’t want it, he doesn’t want it, he doesn’t wa-

Why would he if it is only about misery and hurting? A hurting so quiet it can’t be called resilience anymore, it feels like torture. 

That’s when he also understands ending it is something he can do. He can give up. Not because there aren’t reasons for him to live, only because he doesn’t want them. It’s been long already, hasn’t it? It’s exhausting. He wants to curl up, fade away, disappear. 

His steps carry him through the subway automatically, to the ninth platform, to the tracks, to where the next trail will pass by, without pulling to a stop. 

He’s twenty three minutes early for his own ride. 

His coat is drenched, his eyes dry from the cold, his face frozen. Levi is staring down. There’s a silent fascination pulling him forward, questions silencing the overwhelming murmur of the thoughts he can’t focus on: will he?

_ Will he jump? _

Will it hurt, will he die. 

He knows he will, but the pull in his system, the urgency, is convincing him otherwise: he’s invincible. If he jumps he won’t feel it. 

The wind rises in the tunnel. There’s a voice announcing the arrival of the train. 

Levi takes one step closer.  

It’s not the fascination for the geometry of the tracks but the feeling of power. Levi’s playing God with his own existence and it feels.  _ Good.  _ It feels right. It feels like the answer he was searching for. 

Having control over  _ something  _ within himself is exhilarating. His insides are giddy as his heart thrums loudly. 

He doesn’t want to kill himself, but doesn't want to live either. 

The train barges in the tunnel, the automatized sound of the wheels against the railways drowning any other sound in his ears. Or it might be that his mind is still trapped in the urgency to jump, to end himself, to at least have a choice on how to die if he can’t in how to live. 

He doesn’t. 

It bothers him that he doesn’t. It bothers him so much he’s irritated in his own skin, feeling the weight of the coat but also the press of the crowd around him, the bitter smell of the air, the dim lights. Everything is wrong, he shouldn’t be here. But maybe he should. His mind is still anchored in the toxic spiral of thoughts forcing him to take a drastic measure, he can’t snap out of it. Shoulders raised high to shield himself from the people around, he forces his way out of the subway. He’s confused, vulnerable, a guilt he can’t understand stewing his heart raw.  _ Were you really just about to kill yourself?  _

Ingrateful. Shameless. 

His knees are weak, yet, they’re still pulling him upright as he's immobile in the entry of the subway, eyes unfocused on the snow piling up in the street. The white light on his back powerful enough he can see the flakes floating in the air. It’s so cold his exhales densify in the atmosphere. 

A man walks into him. 

A girl is chatting loudly with her friend a few meters at his right.  _ I told him yesterday about the event, he definitely didn’t know about it! Weren’t you too ea- _

“Hello, this is a hopeline, how may I help you?”

His heart seizes in his chest. He doesn't recall taking his phone out or dialing the number, but It’s definitely the same voice, and there's a rush of adrenaline through his system. He really works there all day. His mind is a bit clearer, he can focus enough to think  _ how crappy.  _ But he is, indeed, an office slave by choice, there’s no much to judge there.  

“I am here”, the operator reassures, when he remains silent. Then, after a few minutes and like an afterthought that can’t be stopped in time, in quiet, quiet voice: “Heartless business devil?” 

He manages to pull himself together at that. Focuses only on the breathing through the phone. 

“It’s actually Levi.” 

A pause. Then, still low, like a secret between them: 

“That sounds foreign.” Levi can’t tell if there’s recognition, relief, or something else in the way it is said. He supposes it could be the last, since the operator was indeed right in his guess. Did he ask on instinct? Before the question can be phrased, however, the operator voices one of his own: “does it come from romance languages?” 

“It’s hebrew.”

“I see. Are you jewish?” 

“Not really”. He’s not good at pointless conversation, so he redirects the subject: “No questions on whether I want to kill myself today?” 

It comes out easier than expected. Doesn’t lift a weight off his shoulders or shit like that, it’s just stated, out there, like talking about the crappy weather of this city or the crappier salad he had for lunch. Like losing his life isn’t a big deal. 

“My apologies, sir” he taunts, “do you want to kill yourself today?”

“I might”, is the reply, in flat voice. 

“Holy shit hey, holy shit”, there’s a ruffle of papers in the background, “holy shit you! Just! I can’t, wait,  _ fuck, I forgot the scri- _ ”

“It’s okay.” He finds himself saying, “I was actually teasing.” 

“ _ You call that teasing?  _ I almost threw up my heart. ” 

“Couldn’t you tell? I’m pretty sure I have a very good mocking voice.”

“That’s. Sarcasm, isn’t it. Because you absolutely do not. Do you also have a poker face to match?”

“I might”, Levi concedes, finally moving to seek shelter under the balconies of the nearest building. He can’t feel his own hand; the cold is mercilessly biting at his body. There’s a new silence over the line. 

“You weren’t kidding, though, right?” 

_ That  _ does surprise him. The kid might really have a good instinct, and it might becoming a habit, too, being thrown off by the boy’s grasp of Levi. 

His silence gives him away. 

He doesn’t know what to make of this pause, only that now the operator has gone deadly quiet and it unsettles him. He wonders idly if this is the first time he’s facing a situation like this and well, at least now Levi’s not alone. 

“Did you try, or are you thinking of doing it?”

“Both.” Again, it doesn’t feel like a confession. Only a statement. He might be really fucked up in the head to be so calm while talking on something so visceral. There’s a new silence, and it almost pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Are you reading the script now?”

“Not really”, the operator huffs, not taking personally Levi’s questioning on his professionalism. “I don’t want to be insensitive.”

“You work on this, don’t you? Just do as you were taught.”

“I don’t think everyone is willing to spill their reasons for wanting to kill themselves because usually they don’t want to be helped. Do you want to be helped?”

Levi muses the question. That wasn’t the reason for his call, was it? He needed a breakout from the vicious cycle of thoughts, but he doesn’t want anyone to try changing his mind. The mere idea of it feels tiring enough that he slumps against the wall. 

“I guess I don’t”, there’s an acknowledging hum. 

“Are you safe right now?” 

He narrows his eyes. 

“Will you send the cops over if I answer negatively?” 

There’s a beat of silence. Then: 

“I won’t if you don’t want me to.” 

That’s probably not what his job is about. Isn’t he supposed to persuade him of not killing himself, or something? Levi’s not going to complain on his consideration, though, so he offers his honesty back: 

“I’m just in the entry of the subway.” 

“You tried to jump in the wrecks.” It’s not a question. “What held you back?”

There’s a change between this conversation and the previous ones. It doesn’t feel as invasive. It might be that his bad state of mind is retreating enough that he can find comfort and anchor in the voice of the operator, but also it might be that he’s talking to him with a shooting confidence, and focus. Almost as if, right now, Levi was the only thing that mattered the most to him. 

He clings onto the feeling. 

“It felt wrong. Like I was being an ungrateful ass to… someone in my life.”

“I’m supposed to encourage the guilt persuading you from ending your life but… others shouldn’t make your misery about themselves. Evading the responsibility that comes with living doesn’t make for a good solution even if it’s the only one you want to take.” 

He’s watching the way his breath dissolves against the blinding white lights of the entrance.

“You say it like I want this to be fixed.”

“Isn’t that why you’re calling?” The operator adds. His voice is really warm and quiet, Levi genuinely likes it. “We usually don’t want to endure the path to get something solved, but we  _ do _ want it to be solved.”

It makes a fair point.  

“You might not be so bad at this after all”. It elicits a small laugh, more a huff of air than a real sound. 

“Not really, it scares me endlessly that I might say something wrong and screw up. But I’m determined to be helpful.”

“Why.” 

It seems to disconcert him, if the brief pause is anything to go by. 

“People deserve to at least, be understood.”

“So it all comes from altruism.” 

“I suppose it has to do more with empathy.” 

“Oh?”

“Mom died when I was young. I didn’t know at the time what kind of thoughts were going over my head, but they definitely were very dark.” 

He would be lying if he didn’t feel like an asshole. This kid lost his mother and moved on and here’s Levi, a perfect life, all things good, people caring for him, and still wanting to end it all. He doesn’t realize he’s voiced it all aloud until he gets a somewhat heated retort: 

“My hurt doesn’t invalidate yours. They come from different places and different experiences and can’t be measured.” 

He’s a bit thrown off, again. Or a lot. Depends on how honest Levi wants to be with himself. 

“Is that why you took this job?”

“Funny enough: I did because my friend asked me. He majored in psychology. I think it might have to do with when, back at that time, he didn’t know how to help. I didn’t know how to help myself either, it took me a very long time to understand I deserved to be kinder to myself. There’s always guilt in death.”

He doesn’t know what to say. Shit, it shouldn’t be that difficult, right? The kid’s being very open and he really sounds like he doesn’t expect anything from Levi, only wants to genuinely share. Okay, maybe he likes that about him too. 

“That sounds hard.” 

It’s meant to be sympathetic, but it comes out flat. However, the affirmative hum at the other side is cooperative.  _ He knows.  _

“It was. It still is, from time to time. But  _ you are so brave and quiet I forget you’re suffering.  _ I think it might apply to you.” 

He can’t avoid the  _ you’re so full of bullshit _ , hoping to hide his own embarrassment. He’s flattered, really, like he had been last time. Only that he doesn’t know how to handle it. Given the small chuckle he hears he might be less hard to read than what he thought.  

“That’s something my friends like to say.”

“We have something in common, then.” 

“Say, Levi”, the operator prompts, after another brief pause. Levi shivers in his coat and refuses to acknowledge it might have to do with the way his name was pronounced. “Did you eat today?” 

“I had a salad.”

“In the whole day? It’s past eight in the afternoon” There’s a frown in his lips at how he fails to come up with an excuse solid enough for his lack of self-preservation. “There are fast-food places nearby subway entrances, why don’t you have something?” Then, almost shy: “I will keep you company.”

“That’s really gross” Levi affirms, but has no reason to not take the suggestion and drop his gaze on the closest restaurant. He’s never noticed it was there in the first place and he has to walk past this square in his way to the office. He feels unsettled at the realization. Also, incredibly, incredibly cold. “You will only hear me chew and swallow.”

“Think of it this way: if you talk to me with your mouth full I won’t see the contents of it.”

He’s not really convinced but his stomach  _ is  _ hungry so he takes the bait and crosses the distance. It smells very good. When was the last time he had a burger? He remembers why he hasn’t in forever upon entering: the hygiene of the kitchen is doubtful along the overall look of everything else. The growl of his gut doesn’t give crap, though.

“You said your friend majored in psychology? Did you, too?” 

“No way. If I did I would be over-analyzing myself to sickness. Also it’s enough with one of us being a genius when it comes to understanding the mind. He’s so smart it’s intimidating.” Levi can relate. He gets the same feeling from Erwin. 

He’s inwardly grateful for the heat inside, even if it’s accompanied by the constant rumor of conversations, the hysterical laughter of some kid and the stickiness of it all. 

“So what did you study then?”

“Social work.”

“Is there a degree for that?” 

“Hard to believe how times have changed, eh, old man?” His tone is lighter and it tugs at the corner of his mouth. 

“Sorry, in the business world we don’t know what caring for people means.” The operator laughs,  _ sincerely laughs.  _ Levi might be slightly fucked on how much he’s growing to like that sound.  “You almost make me seem funny”, he observes absentmindedly, placing the order on the counter. 

“You are not boring, that much I can guarantee.” 

“Can I say the same about you? Mm, I don’t know.”

“Jesus”, he manages with another laugh, only to be cut by Levi’s  _ yes?  _ that has him cracking up a bit more even if it’s a joke as old as time. “Your name’s Hebrew and you’re most likely running the economy of our country, I can definitely believe you’re Jesus.”

“Now who’s the one with the low standards?”

“Never said I was an atheist, I can definitely do with little.” 

“That sounds a lot more like naïve than agnostic.”

“Such a smartass.”

Levi furrowed his brow, grabbing the bag with the contents of his order.

“One with a burger and everything unhealthy in this place, bacteria and some roaches included.”

“I doubt it can be  _ that _ bad. Um... we all often go to that place in our street for some takeout and I can guarantee you I’ve seen the guy sweating over my meal. I am still alive.”

“That’s really disgusting.” There’s a small table in the corner. Vulnerably, he sits over his own coat and hides in his meal, bangs blocking his peripheral vision. He’s glad for that even if he's disturbed at not having anything to wipe the table with. He settles on not touching any surface of this place. 

“Still the food is heavenly. I wish I could eat along with you, I’m stuck here for the next three hours.”

“Hm.”

“Indeed, it’s crappy.” This time he can’t hold back the faint smile in his lips. “We all know each other so it’s kind of nice. Except when the coffee machine breaks, then there’s no salvation. And it breaks  _ every week.  _ We get stuck stuck here in the middle of the winter with no heating system and no coffee to carry on for the  _ whole day.  _ I think at some point last time I fainted from caffeine starvation.”

“I doubt you can do that”, he deadpans. Not because he intends on seem uninterested in the conversation, but because there’s low anxiety bubbling in his stomach he can’t shut down. It feels like his whole system is putting up a war against him. 

“Well maybe you can’t.  _ But _ , it feels awful to not have coffee to carry on through the day. Surely you got a large office with a mug of unused pens that says  _ losers make excuses winners make money  _ and some fancy minimalist calendar to mark the days you eat a new heart.”

“We have a vending machine for coffee and other for snacks, nothing  _ that  _ fancy. When it broke I was the only one seemingly interested in getting it fixed.”

“You have a vending machine and don’t call that fancy? Blasphemy.” 

“You sure are not a college kid anymore?” 

“Some habits stick hard to the bones”, he comments, thoughtfully. “I’d definitely spend most of my shift getting broke on that vending machine. Does it have salty snacks too? Urgh now I’m seriously so hungry.”

“I have no idea.”

“What? You got a vending machine and lots of money and don’t spend it in snacks? Outrageous.” 

“Because pigging out on snacks sounds like a healthy habit.”

“I guess you made a point there. It might be just  _ a bit true  _ that I have some college habits I can’t shake off.”

Before Levi could reply, though, a voice on the operator’s end interrupted their conversation with  _ didn’t I tell you to hung up fifteen minutes ago? Jesus, Eren! This isn’t that difficult you only have to not do it so poorly!  _

_ That  _ actually made him snort quietly. The operator,  _ Eren,  _ defended himself in a half-aggravated voice, there was some ruffle of papers, some distance in the sound and then: 

“I’m really sorry, I have to hung up.”

“I can tell.” 

“Maybe you can call again?”

“Shouldn’t you be going home? Sleep and all that? Or do you sleep there too?”

“Might as well I swe-”  _ Eren!!!! Hung the shit up alrea-  _ “Fine! Fine, fine. I’m here for you when you want to call again, Levi! Have a nice night.” 

Before he could reply the line was dead.

_ Eren.  _

He looked at his finished meal and thought maybe he should, indeed, call later. He had something to thank him for. 

 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you for making it to the end. I think it was quite an intense ride and I apologize for that. There's a very crude rawness to introspection that might be hard to swallow down, but in the lowest points of depression it somewhat feels like getting your identity ripped off of you inch by inch until you're only a perpetual illness on walking legs. However, some days hope knocks on your door and barges in and that's what I was really interested in conveying: you don't ask anyone to shoulder your hurt, or heal it, but to keep you company while it lasts. Being kinder to yourself might entail you gather the little energy you have, bravery, and seek out understanding and empathy. Shouldering your pain in silence is resilient, but having a witness of it turns out to be strangely comforting. Maybe we are not entirely fading away. 
> 
> Calling a hope line provides conversation, but it /is/ a scripted one, the operator guides you through it. Not all might work the same but definitely what Eren does here is kinda on his own will and entirely too personal. I figured there was no way he would set his mind to help someone and not take it personally. 
> 
> And, last! This was not beta-ed and I acknowledge my phrasing in English sounds incredibly non-native and awkward, I'm hugely sorry / lies down very hard. I still hope it wasn't bad enough to disturb the reading!


End file.
